Chapter Thirty-Three
Flora
Ever since that family dinner, Sean’s been determined to pull me out of the abyss of self-deprecation. Lately he’s more tutor than boyfriend, and SAT has replaced sex as the three-letter word dominating our dating agenda.
“This is how you do it.” He picks up a pen, going over the mock test I did earlier. The few questions I got right are drowning in a crimson sea of wrong answers. He scrawls on a piece of paper, demonstrating how to solve the problems.
I never noticed before how he bites his lower lip when he calculates, and I don’t understand how I could’ve missed it. It’s so distractingly provocative.
He puts down his pen. “You’re not listening.”
“Sorry. It’s not entirely my fault. Tutors aren’t supposed to be this hot.”
I thought he’d have the decency to smile, but no, he scowls. “This is important. You won’t have time to retake the test. College application deadlines are around the corner.”
Everything he says is true, but he could say it in a nicer way.
Nowadays he’s all about responsibilities and priorities, and I can’t even recall the last time he touched me properly.
He used to be a mechanic who checked every part of the plane, but now he’s a pilot who jumps in the seat, sticks the key in, and takes off.
Obviously, if I was to contemplate this rationally, he’s doing it all for my sake.
He takes time out of his hectic schedule to help me prepare.
But sometimes it feels like I’m not his girlfriend anymore but another project for him to fix.
In the heat of the moment, when frustration over homework collides with the pressure of college applications, the gnawing fear that his infatuation is wearing off, and my parents’ not-so-subtle pride over Jeremy, it all boils over. And another fight spins from there.
“I don’t need to go to college.” At this point, I’ll grasp at anything. “Plenty of people do fine without it. The idea that you need a diploma to succeed is a myth.”
“You don’t have to go, I agree, but I’m not spending thirty minutes debating it. Don’t try to convince me. Convince yourself. Are you sure you don’t want to go, or are you just afraid to try?”
Is the brutal honesty necessary? Sometimes I only want to vent for a minute before getting back to work, but he makes it so easy to get mad at him.
“SAT scores aren’t the only thing colleges look at.” I put my hands on my hips, almost as if I’m accusing him. “Getting a perfect score doesn’t guarantee anything.”
“True, but that’s not a reason to deliberately tank it.” My argument is so flimsy he can dismantle it from any angle. “Besides, you still have time to improve.”
The unspoken truth is he can’t fix my GPA, and it’s too late to sign up for volunteer work now.
I always get defensive, and he turns sarcastic.
The fights creep into our lives like the ugly mold on the classroom walls, but eventually Sean’s softer side kicks in.
It’s amazing how I can clearly sense that moment.
He understands I’m frustrated and upset, and his whole demeanor shifts, and he leans in to kiss my hair.
“Let’s not fight, baby. You know we want the same thing.”
I sigh. “Yeah. We want sex.”
He laughs. “Sure, but that comes later.” Pulling the test in front of me, he taps the paper with the confidence of someone who aced the math section.
(He got a perfect score. Shocker.) “Come on, this is one of the few things in life that I know a little better than you do. Please let me help you.” His face is all earnest, like he’s asking for a favor.
I force a smile and nod.
“Are you serious about becoming a fashion editor?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how?”
“Have amazing fashion sense?”
“Besides that. I did some research.” The image of Sean googling fashion makes me swoon.
He continues to explain everything I already know.
“Intern at a magazine during college, or for a brand. Connections matter as much as talent. A journalism or a communications degree could help, but experience counts more. Your blog and Instagram already give you a head start, but you should pitch articles to fashion sites and build a portfolio. You might want to apply to one of the schools in New York—NYU, Pratt, Parsons, FIT, or Columbia.”
Such blind faith. “Hello, Columbia? I don’t think so.”
“It’s not impossible. Have you picked out the photos you want to send in yet?”
I smack his arm, and he laughs, grabbing my hand and holding it in his. “Hate to break it to you, but going to runway shows should help, too, especially if you blog about them after. If you ever need to see Lanvin’s new collection again, you can drag me with you.”
My heart expands. “You’re supersweet, you know that? You care about my future.”
“No, it’s not about you. I love those tiny snacks they serve at the runway shows.”
I chuckle, and he smiles. I wait for him to say more nice things, but his expression turns serious again. “You really need to concentrate now, okay?” He places a hand on each side of my face and directs me to the test. “You have eighty minutes to complete the math section.”
I groan as he sets the alarm and goes right back to tutor mode.
He pats my head and leans in to whisper, “If you score over seven hundred, you can have sex with me.”
That’s the weirdest sexual fantasy I’ve ever heard. “Wow. I knew money could buy sex, but I wasn’t aware SAT points could too.”
His lips curl up. “Yeah, what kind of guy do you take me for? I don’t sleep with just anyone.”
I laugh and dive into my mock test. Having a hot tutor has its perks too.
* * *
One beautiful weekend afternoon, I grab lunch with my friends at a café near school. The place is always packed thanks to its aesthetic (if overpriced) smoothies and its willingness to let people loiter for hours without buying much.
It’s been a few days since I got my SAT scores back, and I’m still riding the high of my academic makeover—like I emerged from a YA montage of flashcards, late-night cram sessions, number two pencils, and studying straight through Thanksgiving—while Sean practically went into cardiac arrest when he saw my score (pretty sure he was more stressed about it than I was).
My math section shot up by well over a hundred points, and the reading section got a decent boost too.
It was the early-December test, the last chance of the year before college applications were due, and the relief was overwhelming. My parents gave me a nod and a quick “good job.” In my family, “biggest improvement” isn’t quite as impressive as “top performance.” Still, I’ll take it.
Madison and Raymond show up a little later, fresh from their meeting with the prom committee. I hang out with them because I miss them and refuse to be the kind of girl who forgets her friends once in a relationship—not because Sean is away at a basketball game.
“Is Sean busy today?” Josie stirs her metal straw in her iced tea.
“Let’s just be happy Flora deigns to eat with us.” Madison scans the menu before ordering an Impossible Burger.
Raymond pretends to shield his eyes. “You eat? You almost resemble a human today.”
“Does that bother you?” Madison snaps.
“No, I approve,” Raymond says. “No one likes a girl who survives solely on iced coffee and air.”
“Guys are the biggest hypocrites.” Madison stabs her fork into her food with righteous fury. “They say they like a girl who eats a hot dog and wears no makeup, but that only applies if she still looks flawless.”
Raymond shakes his head. “Beauty is subjective. But speaking of which, can we all agree Ms. Hawthorne’s new hairstyle is . . . a choice?”
Our school nurse recently got a wild perm, and somehow, it ended up lopsided. “It’s like half the seeds got blown off a dandelion,” Madison says, and Josie snickers into her drink.
“Mads.” I clear my throat. “Are we being mean by secretly making fun of people?”
“Secretly?” She raises an eyebrow. “If she asked my opinion, I’d say the exact same thing.”
“I don’t make fun of people,” Josie says. “I make observations. Can’t promise they’re always positive. And what’s with this sudden moral awakening? You literally just blogged about the ridiculous outfits at the Venice Carnival ball.”
“That’s fashion critique, completely different. And Sean says . . .” I trail off when Raymond pretends to gag. “Anyway, it’s not nice to laugh at people, even if they never hear it.”
Carmen smiles. It’s not easy finding someone who shares her opinion, but Saint Sean never disappoints. “Exactly! I’ve said it a million times—if you don’t want to be talked about, don’t do it to others.”
But does keeping mean thoughts to yourself make you a better person? Or a fake one? Ms. Hawthorne totally resembles a ruined dandelion.
“I get nervous when people don’t talk about me,” Madison says.
Raymond slurps his drink, making obnoxious noises with the straw and looking at me funny. “You’re changing, but you were pretty cool the way you were before.”
“Come on, I’m still me. I’m Flora 2.0, with some bugs fixed and a few new features added.”
Josie shrugs. “Oh, hey, by the way, congrats on the SAT. I heard you crushed it this time.”
“Thanks. I worked my butt off. Now I feel like I might actually have a shot at NYU.”
“I’m going to NYU too,” Raymond announces, like his acceptance letter is already framed. “Cinema studies at Tisch. We can have movie nights all the time.”
That doesn’t sound terrible, but I’d rather sit in my dorm and FaceTime Sean, especially if the unthinkable happens and he gets into one of his backup schools. They’re all in California. I loathe the prospect of a long-distance relationship. I might die.
Sean says he doesn’t need to wake up next to me to remember he’s in love, but to be safe, I’ve checked out every school in Massachusetts.
What if we got an apartment together? I may never need movie nights with Ray again.
(Even though Sean either falls asleep halfway through or only watches stuff in which things explode every ten minutes.)